


Tell All the Truth

by Laural_Rose



Series: Poetry in Prose [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Tact is not lies, Truth, fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laural_Rose/pseuds/Laural_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock and a fight about the importance of tact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell All the Truth

> Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant --  
>  Success in Circuit Lies  
>  Too bright for our infirm Delight  
>  The Truth’s superb surprise
> 
> As Lightning to the Children eased  
>  With explanation kind  
>  The Truth must dazzle gradually  
>  Or every man be blind --
> 
> \-- Emily Dickinson  
> 

“So, I should lie?” Sherlock demanded.

John balled his fist, battling down the rising anger.

“No, Sherlock, but a little tact would go a long way.”

“I deal in facts, John, in data, in problems and solutions. What does it matter how the information is disseminated? They have to find out eventually, I’m just being efficient.”

And it was conversations like these that made John doubt his conviction that his friend’s self-diagnosis was wrong.

“If you were plugging it into a computer or writing a report, you’d be right. But you’re dealing with people, Sherlock, actual, living, human beings, with feelings…” John wasn’t sure he was getting through. Sherlock just looked more agitated, not terribly enlightened.

“So, I don’t have feelings, then?” He challenged. John felt the air go out of his lungs, because sometimes it did seem that way, but that wasn’t it at all, and the statement had surprised him.

“What? No! That isn’t it at all, that’s not… That has nothing to do…”

“You’ve said repeatedly that I am inhuman, John.” John winced at his own words, but Sherlock continued in what John considered his show-master tone. “You’ve implied that I’m incapable of acting like a human – something I feel I’ve sufficiently disproved, at least for short periods. Everyone dealing with me for any length of time has to realize the deficit, so I reiterate: what does it matter? If it’s coming from me, you know what to expect.”

The shock was giving way to anger. He didn’t know how to deal with that, and eventually, he would have to, but he did know a diversionary tactic when he saw one.

“That’s just it, Sherlock; this isn’t about you!” He’d expected himself to be yelling by now, but apparently he was going to be working up to that. “That’s entirely my point! For you, it’s data, just another deduction that proves you’re clever, but for them, sometimes your observations are scathing!”

“Now, really, John…”

“Yes, really.” John overrode him. He looked a bit taken aback. John pressed, knowing he’d regret this, but also knowing it needed to be said. His voice dropped again to deadly, predatory calm. “When you told me about Harry’s drinking, I nearly punched you.”

Sherlock stared at him, stunned.

“I hate that she drinks, I hate that she’s just like our mother, and that she doesn’t seem to consider me family enough to stop, because she picked the bottle over me when we were kids. Clara was the best thing that ever happened to her, and she pissed that away, falling into bed with strangers she met at bars, and then blaming it on the alcohol the next morning, saying it was nothing, right up until Clara finally had enough. I joined the army to get away from her – so I didn’t have to watch her kill herself by inches the way mum had, so I wouldn’t be waiting by the phone for that call, wishing to get it over with and feeling like a shitty brother because I given all the help I knew how and it wasn’t enough. When you dropped that, like the punch-line to a sick joke, complete with dramatic pause, I about chinned you.”

Sherlock blinked, looking rather pale now.

“I don’t understand…”

“No, you don’t, which is why we’re having this conversation.” John sighed, feeling unutterably weary all of a sudden. “You get so caught up with your puzzles, you forget there are people involved. Like what you did to Greg at Christmas…”

“I didn’t do anything to Lestrade…” Sherlock was indignant. John didn’t have the energy for his theatrics anymore.

“Announcing to the room that his wife was screwing someone else is one hell of a big nothing.” He replied dryly.

“I’m not the one who betrayed his trust, she did that. And Christmas was your idea, I’ll remind you. You and Mrs. Hudson concocted that ridiculous…”

“Because it was important to us!” John snapped, pinching his nose. “Mrs. Hudson’s sister was visiting Mr. Patterson’s children from his first wedding, and Mrs. Hudson wasn’t invited. Christmas is about family, and the three of us were all she or I had on that score. So, we wanted to spend some time with the people who mattered most. For her, that was you and I, for me that was the two of you. Molly and Greg were there for you, Sherlock. Because you don’t get on with Mycroft and neither of us knew anything about your parents, we invited your friends. Who came, to spend time with and support you. And you spent the night either sulking or insulting people. Or, tossing out rapid-fire deductions about their personal lives that I swear were calculated to hurt, but I always want to give you the benefit of the doubt, I say ‘maybe he didn’t understand’. Well, I guess you didn’t, then.”

“She was betraying his trust, and her wedding vows – I know those are important to people who bother with such rituals.” John suppressed his own eye roll with a force of will. “All I did was point it out. Isn’t that better than letting him continue to delude himself that there would be a reconciliation?”

“Do you remember what you asked me after you outed Jim to Molly?”

“I’d say that worked out very well, why are you mad about that?”

“You didn’t know he was Moriarty at the time, don’t pretend you did.”

“I never said that; yes, I admit I always missed something, and that was a rather large something. But, in the end…”

“In the interim, you hurt her. You said ‘isn’t that more kind’, but nothing you did there was kind, except the initial switch from ‘gay’ to ‘hey’. That was kind, that was the right instinct.”

“She asked…”

“You didn’t have to turn your answer into an Agatha Christie style reveal, Sherlock! You didn’t just tell her, you trumpeted it. You didn’t have any regard for how the information would make her feel, you just wanted to look clever and be right. You made her cry, Sherlock. Twice. She’s the kindest and most loyal person you know, who is unconditionally supportive of you even when you’ve tried my patience past the breaking point, and you see her as just another stage for your brilliance.”

“I don’t… that’s not… that isn’t true…”

“So how much worse is it for the people you don’t know, don’t care about, and who don’t know you? You tear their world’s apart, turn their lives upside-down with a few flourishes of the tongue, then flounce out again, leaving them to pick up the pieces.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, John? To have connections and conclusions crashing together in your mind all the time? The world and its secrets, every person on the street, is nearly transparent to me. I can’t dial it down or scale it back. How am I supposed to know what ordinary people can see?”

“You really don’t realize your doing anything other than stating the obvious as you see it, do you?”

“That’s why I need you, John. To not see what I see, so I know where everyone else will look. As for the rest…”

“Just… just try to be gentler, all right? I’m going to bed.”

John turned to go, and almost didn’t catch Sherlock’s final words, they were spoken so softly his heart ached, but he had no reply, so he remained silent, and pretended he’d heard nothing.

“I don’t know how.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have adored this poem since I was a little girl; I was the babe out of whose mouth came gems (with all the pointy bits that implies). This poem encapsulates something that was very hard-learned for me, and I imagine Sherlock has come even later to its message. If he's gotten there at all. (He hasn't.)
> 
> Also, there might be further chapters to this. It doesn't feel quite done, but I'm not sure where to go, so I'm posting it as 'complete' for now.


End file.
